Cartoons and Whiskey
by xXDasXGoochXx
Summary: GumballXRachel, AU, Yet Another event of getting what you asked for. Rated M for xXDasXGoochXx


Cartoons and Whiskey

By: xXDasXGoochXx

**A/N: Very AU, the only thing having to do with Gumball is the characters.**

**Rated M for xXDasXGoochXx**

Cartoon music lures me down the stairs, one padded step at a time. Rachel is curled at the end of the couch facing the television with an empty bowl and a box of Cheerios next to her. The carton of milk sits on the end table. She has drawn the blinds behind her, darkening the room against the morning light. I push the bowl and cereal aside as I sit, and fall against her landing my head on her arm.

Rachel doesn't allow me to interrupt her stare. My dad says any seventeen–year–old still watching cartoons is an idiot. He only uses her because the other sitters won't do overnights. He always asks if she does things she isn't supposed to. Dad thinks everyone is trying to get away with something.

Annoyed at my restlessness, Rachel asks, "What are you doing up so early?"

I shrug against her broad arm covered in a flannel. The heat leaks through her pajamas, crossing into mine, warm like clothes from the dryer. We watch until she yawns and stretches, allowing me to ease in under her, forcing her arm to drop around my neck. "You're such a cat," she says.

Rachel likes the old ones, the kind she used to watch with her brother: Bugs Bunny, Tweety Bird, and Road Runner. She says they are funny, not just stupid like the new ones. The new ones are crap.

When the commercial comes on, we play a game: Who is more ticklish? I can't make Rachel laugh tickling the bare foot pointed toward me but, like the many times before, she sends me to the floor giggling with pokes in my ribs. We play who can go the longest watching a cartoon without cracking a smile. Rachel always wins. She likes cartoons more than anybody, but she doesn't laugh at them. When my laughing jiggles her too much, she pushes me away imitating Foghorn Leghorn, "Go… I say… go away boy, ya bother me." She can do a lot of the voices. Her brother taught her.

I pour cereal into the bowl, "Can I have the milk?"

"That's creepy," she growls. "I wouldn't use a spoon and bowl you ate out of."

After two bowlfuls I put everything back in the kitchen. I scoot up close and lean into her. She elbows me away, but lets me return, only not as close. Her breath and pajamas smell of cigarettes.

"You've been smoking," I say in a near whisper. If I say it quietly, maybe she won't get mad.

Without looking, she says, "Have not."

"I've seen you smoke lots of times. And drink Dad's whiskey, and pour water into the bottle."

"You lie. When?"

"Last night."

"You little punk." She pushes me away with both hands, and yells, "Were you spying on me?" Covering my head with my arms, I fold away from her. Surprisingly, Rachel doesn't come any farther. "What else did you see?"

Partially sitting up, I say, "Danny."

Rachel leaps to her knees, leans over and begins slapping at my head. "You rotten piece of shit. You'd better not say anything."

Falling to the floor, I roll away, "I won't tell. I won't tell." Rachel pulls herself back into her place, refusing to look at me. Adults like to punish by pretending you are so bad you don't exist. I crawl back to the couch and lie down with my head toward the television, near her leg.

"Wile E. Coyote is my favorite," I say, edging close enough to rest my head on her thigh. She slaps my head a glancing blow, "You suck–up. Mind your own business from now on."

"Dad said your parents would ground you if you saw Danny, and you wouldn't get to drive anymore."

"Wouldn't be the first time." She pauses, then, "But I've been plenty nice to you, so keep your mouth shut."

Rachel isn't exactly nice. Dad says she is as mean as a snake, and as quick to strike. Dad thinks all the guys on his crew are snakes, too, and he yells at them when they don't do their job right. He yells at me because I 'don't care enough to do a good job' on my chores. But Rachel doesn't care about chores. Rachel cares about cartoons. She's nice when she teaches me how to draw the characters.

The heat from her thigh seeps into my ear and fills my head. Thinking about Rachel and Danny on this couch last night makes me feel weird, itchy. My tongue is dry. "Will you to teach me something," I ask.

Her voice is sharp again, "What?"

"That thing you and Danny were doing last night."

Her leg kicks out propelling me upward, and three more hard slaps catch my head and ear. "You are fucking crazy."

I fall to the floor clutching her ankles, "I'm sorry."

Rachel kicks me away from her, "You're only eleven years old, for crissakes." Her face is red and her eyes wide, the kind of face that in a cartoon would steam until her head and body shook, and the top of her head blew off. Rachel doesn't stay mad very long, though, not like Dad. I retreat to the opposite end of the couch and wait.

Rachel says the animation is better, smoother, and you can see how the characters feel. She says Chuck Jones was a genius because even though there are no words, you know exactly what each character is feeling. Wile E. watches a falling bolder, his eyes getting bigger until it lands on him; thrump! I laugh because I know just what Wile E. was feeling. I wonder why Rachel doesn't laugh.

"You'd better not tell on me," she says to the television.

I can't tell if she is worried or angry. "I've never told on you."

When she turns, she looks at me differently, as if she doesn't recognize me, as if she hasn't babysat me a dozen times. In the middle of another chase, she gets up, returns a minute later with a pack of cigarettes, and sits at the same end, the screen flickering on her face. The smell of phosphorous comes with the flame and she exhales smoke toward the television. Her face softens as she folds one arm under the other to prop up the cigarette, and then she turns to me. "Wile E. is my favorite, too," she says. I like that she trusts me, that she is not worried I will tell on her smoking.

I slide into the smoke around her, laying my head in her lap and turning to look up at her. She draws and blows toward my face, and I close my eyes against the sting. She wants to see if I can take it, or if I will act like a baby. Adults hate babies. My eyes open to her stare. Coughing first into her fist, she lets her hand drop to my chest.

My hands are not as big as Rachel's. Her's are smoother, and warmer, too. When I press them together, her fingers can bend over the top of mine, showing her chipped red nails. Each time I touch her palm to my face she pinches my nose hard, and I yell.

"Wile E. is funny," she says, "because he comes up with perfect plans to catch Roadrunner, but something he couldn't expect goes wrong. He tries so hard, follows the instructions for every gadget, but always gets screwed in the end."

One thing I like about this position is that I can see Rachel's rough and pink lips up close. As they tighten around the white cigarette they turn smooth and dark, until she exhales and they become full again. "Can I try your cigarette?"

"Why are you in such a hurry to grow up? I'd kill to be your age again, and I wouldn't rush into everything."

"Does it taste good?"

"Hardly." She gulps a mouthful of smoke, "Only suck in a little," and puts the end in my mouth, "and blow out like this." Her words ride the smoke as it puffs out above me. I inhale too much and jerk myself upright coughing. My throat burns as I wonder how she can stand to smoke. Rachel laughs like a bully. She won't laugh at cartoons, but she laughs at me.

She pinches the cigarette out over the candy dish and retrieves the whiskey bottle from the cabinet. "Here," she says before tipping the bottle to her own lips and dropping it toward me, "Drink some of this. It'll make it feel better."

Rachel guides the bottle to my lips, and I take in a tiny mouthful. Swallowing brings an intense burn and I groan and gasp. Rachel falls back laughing. "Isn't it awful," she says. "I thought I was going to die the first time I tried it." When she sees the tears in my eyes, she stops laughing and says, "You get used to it, though."

I could never get used to that. "Why do you drink it?"

"Well, for one reason," Rachel has dimples when she smiles, "it makes for great kisses."

"How?"

"A whiskey kiss isn't like kissing your parents." She looks as if she is telling me a secret. "You know you're doing something really exciting when you can feel that sweet burn on someone you're not supposed to kiss."

She kissed Danny a lot last night. She must love him. "I don't like Danny."

"Welcome to the club. He was a good kisser, though, just lousy at everything else."

"How do you kiss good?"

Her head comes around to me again, "It's not something you can explain."

Adults always think I'm too stupid to understand things.

"I'm not kissing you," she says, glancing, "if that's what you want."

"Why not?"

"Too fucking little, that's why."

I make sure she sees me turn away. I can pretend she doesn't exist, too.

"Don't look like that, you know you're too little," she says.

"That's stupid. Anybody can kiss."

"A kiss has to be done right. It's supposed to turn you on," she says. "You wouldn't even like it."

I want her to see my face, now. "Yes, I will."

"Have you ever kissed anybody?"

"Yes."

"Your mom, maybe. How long ago was that?"

I shrug, hurt at the mention of Mom, and trying to remember kissing her. I used to be able remember more things about her. Even when I look at the picture of her and dad, the face in my head and the one in the picture aren't the same. I only clearly remember riding next to her in the backseat of a car and her giving me a lollipop. She unwrapped the wrinkled red paper, gave it a lick, winked, and handed it to me. I remember liking that we shared something.

Rachel is studying me like one of her cartoons. "Come here," she orders.

I swallow hard at the idea of kissing Rachel, and worry that she is only teasing because she looks annoyed, but raise my chin to see if she means it. She sticks her finger in the neck of the bottle, tipping to wet the end, and smears my lips.

"That stings," I say, wiping it away.

Smiling, she leans forward, "Now kiss me." I smell the whiskey on her breath as I move forward, still unsure. "Only, close your eyes," she says. I'm afraid to at first, but let her guide me in darkness to her. The alcohol is still on her lips making mine burn again, and the soft warmth of her hand on my cheek burns even more. My first kiss is different than I thought it would be, kinder than it looked between Danny and Rachel. The kindest touch ever. I am warm all over, and I am barely touching her.

"Well," she pulls back, smiling, "Did that turn you on?"

I shrug, "I don't know."

She frowns, "I told you you wouldn't like it."

"Did it turn you on?" I ask.

"Hell, no. A little punk like you?"

"How do you know if you're turned on?"

She looks at me like my math teacher does when he thinks I'll never understand how to do a problem. "Hasn't your dad told you about this stuff?"

"He doesn't like to explain things."

"Some piece of work, he is." She coughs. "When guys are turned on their dick… gets stiff. Have you ever had a stiff dick?"

So that's what 'turned on' means. "Yeah, lots of times."

"Are you stiff now?"

I look at my pajamas to make sure. "No."

"See, you're too little. Danny would have creamed his pants already."

I feel too hurt to ask what she means. "I'm sorry I didn't kiss good."

Rachel leans back, takes the cigarette from the candy dish and relights it. "It's okay," she says, after a puff. I edge over to her, sliding my head into her lap. "At least you didn't ask me to suck your dick," she says. "Guys always want their dick sucked."

That must have been what Rachel was doing to Danny. "Why?"

"They say because it feels good. But it's some kind of power thing."

"What do girls want?"

The smoke swirls around Rachel's face as she stares at me from above, as if she has a question. Eventually, she says, "We have places we like sucked, too."

"Where?"

"You wouldn't like it. Danny hated it. Besides, you're too little."

I'll bet that's what Danny meant last night when he said, "Smells like fucking cat food." Rachel got mad because of that, and she said he wasn't doing it right, and he went home. "Is it between your legs?"

"Not so dumb, after all."

I've never seen between a girl's legs. It was too dark last night. "Can I try?"

Rachel makes a face, "You wouldn't have a clue."

She's right, but I want to see. "Tell me what to suck, I can do it, really. And I won't stop before you say, like Danny."

Rachel mashes out the cigarette, "This is getting too weird." Slapping my chest, she says, "Sit up."

I don't want to leave her lap, but I drag myself upright. "What's it like?"

Rachel uses the remote to change to another station. "What? Sex?"

"I know what you're supposed to do, sort of, but what's it like?"

"It's complicated. It's supposed to feel good, but there is so much crazy stuff going on, it's hard to enjoy it."

"Like what?"

Well, getting pregnant for one thing. Danny didn't like condoms, so I had to use a diaphragm, which I had to hide, because my parents would kill me, or I had to give him a blow job, and then he was fucking useless."

I stare at her, unable to ask one of the many questions I have.

"You have no idea what I just said, do you?"

My head shakes. I hate when she makes me feel stupid.

"A condom is like a balloon you put on your dick so the sperm can't get inside the woman. A diaphragm is…"

"What makes the sperm come out?"

Rachel slumps, lights another cigarette, and looks at me. "Have you ever had a wet dream?"

"What's that?"

"It's when sperm, white gooey stuff, comes out of your dick at night, or after you rub for awhile?"

"I've never had white stuff come out of there."

"Well, you're too little, like I said…. Oh, don't take it so hard. In a few years you'll be shooting your wad and begging some poor girl to swallow it."

Adults tell you to wait for everything until you grow up. I stretch toward her, keeping low, and she exhales loudly as I slip my head onto her lap.

"God, why do you like that?"

"It's warm."

Her thighs tighten under me and relax, "It makes me itch. Anyway, sex is complicated. Frankly, it's not worth the trouble half the time. You'd probably like it, though. Guys always like it more than girls."

"Why?"

"They don't get pregnant. And no one calls them a slut."

"What's a slut?"

"It's just a name guys call girls who like sex, to make them feel bad. Sex feels so good, but if you act like you enjoy it, you're some kind of pervert. Has anyone ever told you not to masturbate or you'll go blind, or some other such shit?"

"No."

"Someone will, someone always does. Just ignore them. There is nothing wrong with masturbating. You can do it a hundred times a day, if you want. Even Oprah says so."

"What's masturbating?

"Rubbing yourself until you come. When the white stuff comes out?"

"Why do you want to make the white stuff come out?"

Rachel laughs. "You'll find out. And when you do, you'll know all about sex, and why it's complicated."

"Teach me."

Another face, "No way. I could get in trouble."

"I won't tell."

"Ha! Guys always say that. Danny told everybody in school after he said he wouldn't."

"But I've never told on you before."

"That's because you didn't have anything to brag about. Once a guy has sex with you, he's gotta tell the whole, fucking world, like he just stepped on the moon." For an instant Rachel looks like she wants to hit me again, as if I am Danny.

I turn on the couch, sliding out on her leg until I can play with a large red button on her pajama top. I can see her belly button sometimes when she moves. She watches as I twist her button, then she pulls at a button on my pajamas. "Why didn't you ever tell on me, for smoking and stuff?"

"You're my favorite sitter."

Rachel is surprised. "What about Cindy Parlee? The boys all love her."

"All she does is homework."

"Not my problem, is it? Do you lay in her lap the whole time?"

I shake my head. "She doesn't like cartoons, either."

"Afraid she might crack a smile," Rachel says. She leaves the button and rakes her fingers through my hair. She pulls on it until it almost hurts, then pushes her fingers through as if she is brushing to get me ready for school. She looks at me like my dad does sometimes, not sure if I am something she wants to keep or throw away.

"Can we kiss again?" I hold my hands like I'm praying.

"I thought kissing me didn't turn you on?"

"I liked it, though."

"My, my, a boy who likes to kiss," she grasps my hands, "doesn't ask me to suck his dick, and promises to suck on me as long as I want. I wish they were all like you."

The way she says this warms my face, and I smile.

"All right, you can have another kiss, for not telling on me."

"Only without the whiskey," I say. "I think it would feel better without the whiskey."

"No, with the whiskey. The whiskey complicates it, only in a good way."

She pulls me up by my hand, swings her legs behind me, stretches out against the back of the couch, then pulls me in next to her again. Rachel arranges me like a doll, moving my arms, pulling my one leg over hers, and telling me just what to do. It is so strange to be this close to someone, with my whole body touching hers. I dip my finger in the bottle this time and smear her lips. My second kiss is better than the first, even with the whiskey, because her warmth is everywhere, so much so that I feel sticky.

All the kissing and touching feels good, but I don't understand why she wants to do it for so long. She did it for a long time with Danny, too, so it must be right. She bats her long eyelashes on my cheek and calls them butterfly kisses. She bites my ear and blows until it sounds like my dad's welding torch, and nearly as hot. She sucks on my neck, but stops so she won't "give me a hickey." When she tells me to practice on her, I try hard to be good at it because it means more when someone who is usually mad thinks you're doing a good job.

When she slides her tongue inside my mouth, I almost choke, and she laughs. "Imagine what it's like to have a dick in there," she says. I try to imagine sucking a dick, then Rachel sucking my dick. This makes me wonder if I'm getting turned on. I'm not sure, and I can't look because Rachel wants to keep kissing. She places my hand on her breast. The bra underneath her pajamas is stiff, but the softness of what is underneath the bra is different than anything I have ever felt. She unbuttons the top button of her pajamas and pulls down her bra. The nipple peeks out and I stop kissing, unable to move my eyes. "Whiskey," she whispers.

I take a sip, drizzle some on my finger and onto her nipple, spreading it around. The nipple shrinks, getting tighter until it is wrinkled and hard. My mouth is burning and I am afraid to swallow as she pulls my head toward her breast. The hot liquid leaks out of my mouth as I suck. It feels great to suck her nipple, satisfying like when you suck sweet hard candy, yet it burns each time I swallow.

She tells me to rub my tongue against her nipple, only steady like the beat in music. "Slow, and steady," she says, "is how you make a girl come." Which is confusing because I thought it was sucking between her legs. Rachel breathes hard underneath me pushing my head up and down, the alcohol scratches at the back of my throat, and I can feel myself turned on against Rachel's hip, so turned on my dick feels numb. It's never felt numb before. Something must be wrong. Rachel's right. I'm too little for this.

Rachel sits up pushing me away. "What's that?" she says, her voice full of fear.

I tumble to the floor on my butt, "What?"

She twists over the couch and squints through the blinds using her fingers to pry them apart. She jumps up and goes into the kitchen, looking out the window over the driveway, and checks the lock on the door. She returns buttoned up, and sits down on the couch. "I thought I heard your dad coming home," she says, panting. "But it was just the neighbors car." Rachel fans her face. "Scared the piss out of me."

Rachel is afraid of getting in trouble for kissing me. I guess she isn't supposed to kiss anyone. I'll bet I would get in trouble, too. "He won't be home until tonight," I say.

Rachel roars with laughter, "Good thing, too." Pointing, she spits out, "Look at you."

My pajamas are sticking up below my waist, so I pull my legs up, wrap my arms around my knees and drop my head.

"Don't be a wuss," she says. "I've never seen someone your age with a hard on, is all. It's funny."

My cheeks are burning more than the whisky in my stomach, and I keep my face hidden. "You said it's supposed to get stiff. Why is it funny?"

"All right, maybe it's not funny. It's just that you're so little, and here you are getting turned on, and…"

"Was I turning you on?" I ask, peeking.

"Look," Rachel tries to wipe the laughter away with her hand, "you're not my type, even if you were older, okay?" She laughs again.

I yell, "I don't want you to laugh at me."

"Okay," she slaps her thighs, "I won't laugh, but you're taking the fun out of it." Rachel folds her arms, slides down on the couch and straightens her legs, and I try not to look at her. I wish she didn't exist.

She ignores me for a while, then says, "This one's been edited," pointing at the cartoon with a cigarette just pulled from the pack. "They took out the frames with Elmer firing the shotgun. They actually think seeing that would make us want to kill someone." When I don't answer or look she waves her cigarette, "You want a drag?" She gives up and returns to the cartoon.

I want to be in her lap again more than anything, but I am afraid. I don't know if she is going to make me feel good or bad. You can never tell what adults are going to do. "I don't like smoking."

Rachel's head snaps around, and there is anger in her voice, "Sometimes, you do things you don't like so the person you're with won't feel alone, because you know that being alone is the worst feeling in the world."

I'm surprised Rachel feels bad about me not looking at her. It means she cares about me more than she lets on. This makes me feel good again. I get up to sit on the couch and her face stiffens as she watches me without turning. I turn and fall into her lap, looking to see if she is going to hit me. There is no movement, or warmth, and her legs are rigid against my neck. Her stomach barely moves, and her face is like a picture. Rachel was always filled with something before: anger or laughter, ready to fight or swear or tease me. Now, she is empty.

I reach for the cigarette loose in her fingers and she hesitates giving it to me, then lets me take it as she wiggles and softens underneath me. After my shallow puff, she takes its back. She blows smoke out her mouth and sniffs it back up her nose. I take easy puffs to keep from coughing. We share a few more times until the cigarette is too short to smoke, and she stubs it out. Her hands fall, one near my head, one resting on my stomach, her eyes captured by the television.

Her emptiness is my fault. My dad feels bad after he hits me, too, and I hate when he tries to make me laugh afterward. One thing always works, though. I carefully undo one of the lower buttons on Rachel's pajamas, take a deep breath, and flubber my lips on her belly. After two more flubbers, she says slowly, "What–the–fuck–are–you–doing?"

"Trying to make you laugh."

"You're giving me a slobber bath."

Seeing the slight smile, I continue. After a few more times, I ask, "Would that feel good on your tits."

"I'm sure it would for you, you horny little turd."

I poke her breast with my finger, and she slaps my hand. Each time I poke faster, or a different breast, trying to avoid her hand. When she misses and slaps her tit, she says, "Ow," and laughs.

I sit up enough to reach her lips. Surprised at first, she hesitates, then lets me kiss her. I guess I did it wrong because she pushes me back and says, "You're not much of a kisser." She doesn't look like she means it, though. Adults never say when you do things right. When I settle back down, she asks, "What happened to your hard on?"

I shrug.

"Looked like a pretty good one." She slides her hand down to my waist and tucks her thumb in the elastic of my pajamas. "Mind if I look?"

"Promise not to laugh?"

"I'm already laughing. Don't be so sensitive."

I turn away, not wanting to see her laugh. Instead of lifting my pajamas, she slides her hand over my pants and rubs my penis softly. She works the middle of it into her hand and squeezes, and then rubs again. It feels different when someone else touches it, more exciting. When I look up she is grinning, but worried. "Is this okay? I don't want you to have me arrested for molesting you."

I squeeze her breast, "I this okay? I don't want to get arrested."

"Smart ass. Let's have a look." She lifts the waistband of my pajamas and underwear, and I tip my head forward to see. My penis is pointing straight at her, and she says, "A little small, but you've got some hair down there."

I'm glad she didn't laugh. "Rachel, how do you tell when a girl is turned on?"

She continues rubbing gently. "Girls get wet."

"They sweat?"

"No, They get wet between their legs."

"Can I see?"

"What makes you think I'm turned on?"

"I don't care, I just wanna see."

Rachel sighs, leaving a little of the sadness on her face. "This is going to get complicated," she says. I sit up, but she tells me to sit on the floor in front of her. After staring for a minute, as if she can't make up her mind, she lifts her hips, slides her pajamas and underwear down her legs, and kicks them away.

I can see colorful hair below her navel and the puffy skin beneath that looks folded. I walk to her on my knees until I am touching hers. Little orange and blue hairs appear on her legs a few inches above the knees, and I walk my fingers up until I can twist the longer, curly hair above in my fingers. I lean in close and poke, watching the folds spring back. Rachel uses both hands to pull back the skin until I can see more and pinker wet skin. Kind of like looking in someone's mouth, only I don't see any hole. I thought there was supposed to be a hole. It smells a little, but not like cat food. "Where is the water?"

Rachel takes my hand, looks to see if it is clean, separates my first finger and touches it to the soft pink under a fold. "The slipperier that gets, the more turned on the girl is," she says.

I rub the sticky film between my fingers. "Where do I suck?"

She pulls the skin back again and points to a tiny pink bump near the top of the fold.

"It's so small."

"Well yeah, compared to a dick."

"And it turns you on if I suck on it?"

You don't actually suck. Remember that thing you did on my nipple with your tongue? That's what you do. That makes a girl come."

"Where does the white stuff come out?"

"Nothing comes out of a girl, dummy, it just feels good."

"Do I use the whiskey?"

"God, no," she laughs. "That would burn it off."

Scooting closer, I bend in and stick out my tongue, being careful not to touch anything before I reach the bump. It looks so soft I'm afraid I might hurt her if I touch the wrong thing. "Hey," she says, putting her hand on my forehead before I arrive, "If you don't like it, just stop. No wisecracks."

She doesn't want me to laugh at her. "Don't be a wuss," I say.

She spreads her knees apart as I touch the bump with my tongue, and she jumps, "Oh!"

"I'm sorry,"

She giggles. "No, it's okay. It felt good."

I expect her to taste like salt, but she doesn't, and I like the smell, whatever it is. I concentrate on licking her the way I did before, trying to mind the beat like when I played clarinet in the band and had to tap my feet. It felt good to suck her nipple, and I wish there was something to suck here, too. Rachel watches me at first, then closes her eyes and pets my head. It hurts my neck to look at her face so I stare at the curly hair under my nose until I go cross–eyed and have to close my eyes.

My tongue is getting very tired. I never realized that tongue muscles could get sore. Like kissing, this is boring, but I don't want Rachel to get mad at me like she did Danny, and I don't want her to think I'm too little. It helps to pretend her bump is a tiny piece of hard candy.

"Oh, fuck" she says, and her legs squeeze against my shoulders and her hips push against my mouth. She says, "Oh, fuck," or another swear word every few licks, about a hundred times. I lick steady and strong, trying to decide what it tastes like. Kind of like Sour Balls, only better. All of a sudden, she stops making words and starts making short, sharp noises, as if she is being splashed with cold water, then she pushes me away.

"What's wrong?"

She laughs between heavy breaths, "Nothing. I really didn't think you could make me come, but you did, fucking eh".

"Did I do it better than Danny?"

"All you had to do to be better than Danny was try."

I look down at my pants, smiling, "It turned me on, too."

Rachel sits up to look, "I guess to hell. Stand up." She pulls my pants down to my ankles and holds my penis in her hand, squeezing.

The numbness returns as she rubs. Worried again, I say, "It's numb. You shouldn't squeeze it any more."

Rachel giggles, "I think it's supposed to be numb. Does this feel good?" She rubs hard back and forth and I nod. It makes me shiver it feels so good.

"No problem then. Now that we've gone this far, wanna go all the way?"

"What's that?"

Rachel throws one leg over the arm of the couch pulling everything between her legs wide open. "If you want, you can stick it inside me."

There must be a hole there, after all. I look carefully, but can't find it. "Where?"

"There's a place for it down there, I'll show you." She doesn't wait for me to make up my mind, grabbing my penis and pointing the tip in between the folds of the pink wet skin. "Push," she says, and I am amazed when my penis slips inside. "Back and forth," she says. It is very warm and each time I push my body tingles. "You're getting the hang of it. You do that as long as you want while I help myself." Rachel slips her finger over the bump I rubbed with my tongue while I back and forth.

I go in all the way because she said I could, even though I'm afraid I might poke something in there and hurt her. She doesn't look in pain, though. Her eyes are closed and she is smiling. She says, "Oh, fuck," about a thousand times.

Suddenly, the numbness gets real bad and my penis starts twitching. I've hurt myself, for sure.

Rachel gasps and sits up, "What did you do?"

Shoot, now I've hurt her with my dick, so I freeze.

"You stupid shit," she yells, and pushes me back until I fall on the floor on my butt. Standing and yelling she asks, "Did you come inside me?"

Surprised by her question, I say, "No."

Yelling louder, "I felt something. Did you come inside?"

"I don't know. It twitched."

"I thought you had never come before. I thought you were too little. Holy shit, you came inside me. I could get pregnant, you dumb fuck. You want me to get pregnant?"

That seems scarier than anything, and my dick hurts, too. "I'm sorry."

She reaches down to my dick, squeezes and pulls at the end, forcing a small drop of fluid to leak out. "That looks like come. God Damn, you came."

I'm surprised at seeing the white stuff, and I stare. "I'm sorry."

"You're shit, is what you are." She grabs her pajama bottoms from the floor and stomps off to the bathroom, yelling, "I can't believe I let you do that."

I quickly pull up my pants and sit on the couch. She is really mad this time, mad enough to start hitting me. It'll be okay, Rachel never hits very hard. Not like Dad. If Dad finds out I got her pregnant, I bet he'll use the belt. I am so scared I want to cry. Dad hates it when I cry. Rachel has never seen me cry. I wrap my arms around my knees, and try to watch the cartoon. If I laugh, I can't cry.

I guess I came like Rachel said, but I didn't know it would hurt her or make her pregnant. How come this never happens to cartoon characters? I've never seen anything about sex in a cartoon. Nothing ever turns out right for me, either. I turn the volume down because the noise makes me want to cry more.

Rachel is swearing and banging things in the bathroom, so I turn it up again. I rock in the corner of the couch and try to see through the spaces in the blinds. At least my dick is starting to feel normal again. I run to the kitchen and grab a piece of candy from the jar and return. I suck hard for the sweet taste because I can still taste Rachel.

Rachel comes back dressed in her pajamas again, sits without looking at me, and lights another cigarette.

"I'm sorry." The tears come and won't stop. "I didn't know that would happen."

Rachel refuses to look at me as I cry in the corner of the couch, then she turns and yells, "Stop crying!"

Relieved she is looking at me, I wipe my nose on my sleeve and wait. A cloud of her smoke fills the air. I scoot closer. "Are you pregnant?"

"No, at least I don't think so. You must be too little to get someone pregnant."

"How can you tell?"

"You have to wait a while. I'll get one of those tests, then I'll know for sure."

She doesn't sound so angry, now. "Are you going to tell my dad?"

"That would be real smart. No, if I get pregnant, I'll blame Danny."

I ease my head into her lap. "Thanks." I am so glad I never told on Rachel.

Rachel is staring at the cartoon, but she is not watching. "We can't tell anyone about this, ever. I'd get in big trouble. I'd never be able to babysit you again. You understand?"

I nod, trying to squeeze my arms in around her back and nuzzle into her stomach at the same time.

"What are you doing? Geez, I'm not your mother."

Rachel has never let me hug her before. She is so warm, I want to be inside her. As she exhales, I look up and say, "You're not supposed to smoke if you're pregnant."

She looks at me angry, turns away, and then snubs out the cigarette. Her arms fold and unfold, as if she doesn't have a place for her hands anymore. She says, "You're not supposed to come inside your babysitter, either," then bursts out laughing. "It's care… I say…it's careless boy, and just plain rude." The jiggling of her stomach bounces my head and makes me laugh, too. The laughing makes me less worried.

She stops laughing all of sudden, remembering her anger and what I did to her. I say, "Rachel, if you get pregnant, I'll marry you."

"That is like, the dumbest thing anyone has ever said. Why on earth would you marry me?"

"Because I love you."

"Fuck!" she yells, slapping her hand on the arm of the couch. "Now, do you see why sex is complicated?"

End

**This is an expeiment into Gumball and Rachel pairing. Thought I'd try it out. Review and tell me what you think.**


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